


fandom_stocking contribution: Firefly (Simon/Jayne)

by recrudescence



Category: Firefly
Genre: M/M, Rimming
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-01-17
Updated: 2010-01-17
Packaged: 2017-10-06 09:13:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,790
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/52061
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/recrudescence/pseuds/recrudescence
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Smut! And Jayne giving advice, kind of.</p>
            </blockquote>





	fandom_stocking contribution: Firefly (Simon/Jayne)

“Everyone's got a type,” Jayne says matter-of-factly, setting another empty shot glass aside and stretching closer to the fireplace. “Don't need no fancified learning to tell what ain't yours.”

Simon's lost track of just how much whiskey's settled in his stomach since monsoon season kept Mal and Zoe from meeting up and forced the two of them to hole up in a local dive for the night. How he came to be knocking back drinks in Jayne's room instead of sleeping off the day's misadventures in his own is just one of several things that escapes him at the moment. “Yes, and for all you know, _you_ could be,” rolls off his tongue a little too easily and with an unconvincing amount of sarcasm.

“Bet that'd just kill you. Not that you'd ever say, anyhow.” He sounds almost sulky about it.

“Under the right circumstances, I might.”

“You might,” Jayne repeats, a smirk pulling at his mouth and something disturbingly knowledgeable flitting through his eyes.

“Of course,” Simon adds slowly, “that’s because it isn’t real.”

“It isn’t, huh?”

“No. We’re in a different place, different people, and we’re going to fuck.” It's a little difficult to move from his chair over to where Jayne's lazily sprawled out on the floor, but somehow Simon manages to straddle his lap. Knees digging into the cheap rug, fingers digging into leather when he sinks down to unbuckle Jayne’s belt. “You’ve imagined making me do whatever you want. I know you have. Tell me what I do for you.”

Dry mouth, clumsy fingers, and he's sure the alcohol's made him fumbly and flushed. Then Jayne catches his chin in one big, warm hand and Simon wishes to high heaven he could blame the alcohol for the way his eyes flutter half-shut and roll back in his head. “I get to do you?”

“If you must,” Simon answers magnanimously, undoing his vest.

“Like you even get to call the shots.” For someone who's put away as many drinks as Jayne, he's surprisingly adept at maneuvering buttons through buttonholes. His mouth is brushing up against the edge of Simon's ear and his voice is very low. The fire crackles and a matching bloom of heat unfurls in Simon's middle. “You’re some trick I picked up off the street, all done up like you’re better than you are when everyone knows you’d be on your knees for the price of a good meal.”

“I suppose even whores stay in more often during the rainy months,” Simon starts, but his flippancy isn't at its finest and it's a stupid retort anyway, not that he gets a chance to finish it since next thing he knows his shirt's undone halfway down his chest and Jayne's is off entirely and about three hands are trying trying to yank off his undershirt and someone that sounds sort of like him is cursing a blue streak. Jayne's weight on him is heavy and strong and ohholygodalso_good_ in a way he can barely remember; legs hooked together, one shoe off, everything whiskey-hazed and clutching hands and teeth-clashing kisses and _hard_.

Jayne with a grip on his ass, firm and primal and weirdly appealing as Simon tries and fails to wriggle out from under him in order to get his pants the rest of the way down. Rug burn on his back when Jayne's mouth presses into the gully of one hipbone, hot and open, and he almost misses it when Jayne's other hand goes reaching for a bag without missing a beat, coming out with a bottle. Simon's breath hitches even though he knows Jayne's probably going to laugh over it later.

“If that's gun oil, I may have to revise my—“ thumb kneading down the crest of that hip to the join of his thigh; head falling back to the floor and mouth falling open and Jayne unconcernedly rubbing there, back and forth, like it's nothing, “_oh_.”

“It ain't. Never know what you might need or when.” Jayne really does come prepared for any occasion. Simon could kiss him for that, so he does.

When his eyes are capable of both opening and focusing, there are clothes scattered everywhere, firelight making his skin burn even hotter and casting tawny dips of light and shadow over Jayne's body, which is suddenly a whole lot more _bare_, and Simon can't look away. Can't stop touching, either, tracing each inch like he can follow the shape of every flickering flame, transfixed, and Jayne doesn't seem to mind. Busy enough making Simon hiss and squirm with the grit of facial hair nudging against the inner nook of one knee where it's somehow gotten slung over one wide shoulder.

“Got three fingers up in you already, feel that?” Jayne's murmuring, hot and hushed. “Feel how loose and open I got you?”

Of _course_ he does; how could he _possibly_ overlook something that obvious? But Simon knows a rhetorical question when he hears one and just now he's not so sure he wouldn't listen to _anything_ as long as it were folded up in Jayne's heatedrough voice, so rather than argue the point he just lets out a sound that doesn't contain any words whatsoever and _bends_.

“Ain’t having you finish yet. Gonna come in your tight little ass first, watch you work me for it.” Simon on hands and knees—when did _that_ happen?—with toes curled and head lagging forward and every breath sounding impossibly loud, doing just that. Jayne's cock is bare and wide and wet inside him, and each time it presses deeper, his fists clutch at the rug and his spine turns to water and he's spilling and smearing against the floor and his stomach but can't _touch_ himself for more than a second without Jayne snatching his wrist and pulling him back. Those hands roaming down his back, rubbing over his hips, clamping and guiding and _holding_ him there, leaving him with nothing to do but clench and shudder and gasp-sob for air. “Yeah, that's is...Feel how hard you make me, _baobei_?” And that's when he knows this can't be real, that they've both taken the game and run with it, since no way in the 'verse would Jayne ever use a pet name on him unless it was somehow derogatory.

“Spread you open all wide and aching for it.” Drawing out and turning him on his back, _staring_ like he's looking down at a particularly delicious meal and clearly waiting for Simon to arch up and _whine_, which, God help him, he _does_. Jayne grins, broad and uncomplicated. Pouring more oil of the not-gun variety, slick and drizzling between his cheeks, and he opens up involuntarily, lets it slip right up into him, followed by two of Jayne’s fingers at once, and Simon finds himself staring in a way he never would if he were undertaking this sober.

Watching Jayne's fingers slip out of him, drawing through the oil on his thighs until he's cursing for Jayne to rutting _do_ something already, which seems to tickle Jayne to no end, then pushing back inside him two-knuckles deep. Surveying him so intently Simon squeezes his eyes closed and bites the inside of his cheek to tamp down a groan when that voice rumbles out, “Like the look of you this way.” And the next thing he knows, Jayne's cock is inside him again, Jayne's hand is on him, squeezing and jerking and bringing him off and he can't even bring himself to be concerned about the mess. If Jayne's intent on treating him like a rent boy, then he might as well go along for the ride. Full throttle.

“Stay...keep it in me,” he mumbles, sounding slurred and half-sleeping, tightening and wriggling before Jayne can slip out of him. Words take too much effort and his entire body feels drugged and exhausted, but there's still enough sensitivity left in it for him to let Jayne’s hands play over him—nipples, chest, stomach, lightly toying with his spent cock, and each time he moves he feels Jayne’s come trickle out of him, warm and dirty and pleasant in a way he'd never admit out loud.

It's been ages since Simon woke up in bed that he doesn't remember getting into. Waking up with an erection pressed up against his navel, a tongue forcing its way inside of him, knees almost at his ears, and Jayne _pinning_ him there—that's new.

Bent up and exposed, clutching at threadbare sheets and not sure whether to be pleading for more or for him to _stop_, only it's a moot point since speech is utterly beyond him. Jayne spreading him open and licking at him long after Simon’s come again, filthy and humiliating and he's rutting _dripping_ over his stomach and down his side to muss the bedclothes and mildly horrified about it even as his mouth falls open. “Pleasepleaseplease, fuck me again, need you to, need you in me, Jayne, gorram it, _now_,” babbling until Jayne presses up onto his knees and goes shoving into him all at once, no fingers first to ease the way, pulsing and pushing and leaving him limp and gasping.

Afterward, Jayne is snoring and taking up the majority of the bed, and Simon is feeling peculiarly complacent about it all. Or maybe too strung out to be anything else.

When Mal radios in, the fire is dead, Simon has two limbs hanging off the side of the bed and two more caught underneath Jayne, and there's far too much sunlight shooting through the windows and into his skull. No way to hide how well-fucked they look, no time for a more than a quick scrub-down before meeting Serenity, though there's a shower where Jayne uses up all the hot water without an ounce of regret.

By the time it's Simon's turn, the showerhead's pressure is down to barely a drizzle. Jayne goes over his teeth with a kit no doubt purloined from the infirmary, tugs on yesterday's clothes, and looks fresh as a daisy compared to how Simon feels. Next time he's roped into assisting Jayne, he's packing a toothbrush. And pain meds. Lots of those. It doesn't even occur to him that he's as much as admitted there's going to _be_ a next time.

“How are we going to explain this to this captain?” It's not so humiliating to ask Jayne for advice when his head is too busy throbbing for him to think straight.

Instead of the lewd guffawing and grinning Simon was half-expecting, Jayne just shoulders his things and then _winks_ at him, stoic as can be. “Just tell him you finally found someone your type. Hell, he might even be a little jealous.”


End file.
